


Fissures

by orphan_account



Series: I Promise You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Porn, Rape, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 05:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9477806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John is safe from Paul, and Sherlock isn't planning on letting him go again; that is, if he can get John to let him in. The army doctor doesn't seem to be healing well from his horrifying ordeal, and he'll need all the help he can get from Sherlock before he can be the man he once was. Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft are dealing with the fallout from their breakup in their own ways, and Greg falls back into bad habits without Mycroft's love to guide him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I orphaned this because I'm not a fan of the writing style I used to have. However, I couldn't bear to delete it, because even badly written hurt-comfort is still worthy of being read by those of us who love a good sob story. This second part will not be finished, but if you want to take a stab at an ending, by all means go for it!

“Coffee?”

Sherlock looked up at Molly standing hesitantly in the doorway, holding a blue mug with steam rising off the top. She smiled shyly, all teeth and too-bright lipstick. “I thought you might need something. To keep you awake, I mean.”

“No.” Sherlock stood abruptly, turning to the window. The sky outside was overcast, grey clouds looming across the horizon.

Molly shuffled into the room, setting the mug down on a counter, and moved to stand next to Sherlock. Silently, she laid a delicate hand on his back, fingers resting gently between his shoulder blades. Sherlock stiffened momentarily, then relaxed, letting out a long breath and closing his eyes against the tears that seemed to threaten at any moment.

“Sherlock…” Molly hesitated, hand curling in against his back and then spreading again, nails scratching gently. “When I was in love with you-”

“Molly, please, not now.” Sherlock’s voice was weary as he shrugged off the pathologist’s comforting hand.

Molly looked at the floor, squeezing her hands into fists. She began again, voice quiet. “When I was in love with you, it was like…like being in love with the sun.”

“I hardly think I’m that luminous, nor quite that large.” Sherlock said dryly, staring at a raindrop making a slow path down the windowpane.

Molly ignored him, pressing onward with a nervous tone. “You were so smart, so good at everything you did, you outshined everything else in my life. I wanted you so badly, Sherlock, but you don’t expect the sun to love you back, not when it’s so far away and so incapable of feeling anything but indifference towards you.”

Sherlock turned, eyes full of irritation and a deeper well of sorrow, his voice sharp. “Is there a point to this diatribe, Miss Hooper, or have I not suffered enough recently to whet your satisfaction?”

“John looks at you like you’re the sun.”

Sherlock stared at the window, Molly’s quiet words echoing in his skull like the last notes of an opera. His body felt frozen.

“I am aware of John’s feelings towards me.”

“Then when he wakes up, you’ll tell him.” Molly’s voice was shakier with each word. “You’ll tell him that you feel the same, or you’ll tell him to give up, because dragging someone on while they adore you that much…I’ll be honest, Sherlock, it’s hell. It’s absolute hell, loving someone who could never give you what you want.”

Sherlock remained still for several moments, eyelashes fluttering over not-quite-closed eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and much hoarser than it had been. “Molly…I am not the sun.”

“You are to John.” Molly moved in front of the detective, staring at him with intensity. “You’re his whole world, Sherlock, and he isn’t going to get through this without you.”

“I will be with him throughout his entire recovery.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Molly said sharply. Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned his head away, shoulders tensing.

Molly stepped towards him again, laying the same hand as before between his shoulder blades. Her voice was gentle and soothing, full of a deep compassion Sherlock could barely fathom. “Please, Sherlock. Tell him. Just tell him.”

……..

Greg awoke to silence.

Sitting up, he groaned as his head pounded with the after effects of the previous night’s drinking binge. The previous day, Greg had arrived at the station and sat down in front of his computer to attempt to hack into the flash drive. Just moments later, he was alerted of John’s surprise arrival at St. Bartholomew’s after he had been found in the wreckage of that car. He had bolted immediately, arriving at the hospital seconds after Sherlock.

Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

After ensuring that Sherlock was calm enough to not attempt anything insane, such as finding and dissecting Paul’s body in the morgue (Greg wouldn’t put it past him), the inspector had left him sitting quietly with John. He had made a half-hearted attempt to hack the drive again, but gave up after half an hour and left work to make an entrance at his local hole-in-the-wall pub, hoping to drink himself so deeply into a stupor that he wouldn’t remember Mycroft’s words, much less his name.

By the monstrous headache currently taking a hammer to his brain, he had succeeded. Greg stood, legs shaking. Somehow, he had made it back to his small, damp flat that hadn’t seen him more than once a month since he had started dating Mycroft. It was in a disreputable area and was horribly dingy, but rent was cheap, and with his less-than-decent salary and money-grabbing ex-wife, he couldn’t afford anything much better.

That had been one of the excellent things about dating Mycroft, Greg mused as he stumbled to the bathroom to wash the disgusting taste out of his mouth. The man did enjoy the finer things in life, and he had the money to indulge himself. For the first time in his life, Greg had found himself sleeping on Egyptian cotton bed sheets and enjoying steak and lobster almost weekly, his favorite meal. Mycroft had been shocked when he realized how little Greg pampered himself.

“Living in a flat with no central heating is not healthy, Gregory!” Mycroft had said, appalled at the chilled state of Greg’s living space. “Your refrigerator should almost certainly have more than a single loaf of bread in it, and I won’t even mention the simply shocking state of your carpet.”

Greg smiled faintly at the memory, staring at the bags under his eyes in the cracked bathroom mirror. He leaned down, splashing water over the stubble on his cheeks, shivering at the feeling of cold tile under his feet.

If Mycroft were here, he would have wrapped his arms around Greg and kissed the back of his neck, tracing the trail of silver hair with his tongue. Greg ghosted a hand along his shoulder, an overwhelming sense of loneliness filling him. He missed the man.

However, Mycroft was right. Greg stared sharply at himself in the mirror, pinpointed each flaw in his face, each blemish on his skin, each imperfection in his musculature. He would not be a weak man. He would take a month and get himself together, make himself the perfect man that Mycroft wanted him to be.

Greg wanted to throw up.

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, anxiety coursing through him. He hadn’t felt this way since he and Mycroft had begun dating. However, all of his past seemed to be surfacing in the wake of the tsunami that was John’s struggle. The images- _blood, sex, god no_ -were always there, in the back of his mind, but something was pushing them to the front, blazing each horror violently across the inside of his eyelids. He didn’t know how to make it stop.

Greg opened his eyes to find that his hand had closed around his straight razor.

“Absolutely not,” he rasped firmly to himself, setting the razor back on the lip of the bathtub. “You’re doing well now. You don’t need that to control it.”

Mycroft had never known about the self-harm, Greg had made sure of that. He had plenty of scars, but being employed at Scotland Yard gave him a convenient excuse for most of them, and the others he could play off as small accidents. Besides, he had kicked the habit months before he met Mycroft, going through therapy and finally confronting the issues that had remained uncontrolled for so long.

Greg stood and left the bathroom, breathing deeply and hoping that he had tea somewhere in his sparse kitchen. It would be all too easy to fall back into his old habits, being alone, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let it happen. John and Sherlock were going to be needing a lot of help in the coming months, and he couldn’t afford to let them down.


	2. Chapter 2

John was alone.

The air smelled of smoke, the metallic tang of blood against his tongue. He could not move. He could not hear. He could not speak. He saw Paul’s body, mangled and mutilated, lying next to him. His eyes were open in an unseeing stare, a maniacal smile frozen on his face like a mask.

John felt hands grabbing him, stroking his body, pinching the skin exposed from where the road had torn his worn jumper to shreds. They were all over him, and when he looked, every hand belonged to another Paul, possessive and sweet and angry all at the same time. He tried desperately to call out, to scream to anyone who might be nearby, but nobody came. Each touch of skin on bruised skin was like the cut of a knife, blood flowing and spurting from the wounds that each caress and slap of Paul’s rough fingers created.

The road beneath John was rough, gravel scraping against his back as he shook with fear and pain. He wanted it to stop, but Paul was always there. The man lay to John’s right, as dead as the fighting spirit he had once had, but Paul stood above him, stroking his cheek with a hand and whispering love confessions. Paul knelt at his right, screaming insults and striking John over and over where he was weakest. Paul laid between his legs, hands ghosting in a sickeningly possessive manner over his groin and hips.

John felt as though he was going to throw up. Everything hurt, worse than anything else had ever hurt him before.

When he awoke, it was with a violent retching noise. Sherlock startled awake from where he had been dozing in an uncomfortable plastic chair and grabbed a bin from next to the bed, shoving it into John’s lap just as he lurched forward and vomited.

John threw up the bile that had forced its’ way up his throat, but nothing more. Sherlock watched worriedly, unable to tell whether the choked noises emerging from the doctor’s mouth were coughs or sobs.

John quieted after a few minutes, reaching for a cup of water with a shaky hand and downing it before setting the bin back on the floor next to the bed. He refused to look at Sherlock, staring determinedly at his hands, clasped together on the thin sheet covering him. He was shivering slightly, though Sherlock could not tell if it was from the temperature of the room or the nightmare and subsequent expulsion he had just experienced.

Sherlock shifted awkwardly, then said in a quiet voice, “Are you cold?”

John looked up at the detective, surprise in his features, then quickly glanced away, not responding.

Moments later, John felt the warm press of a blanket against his shoulders. He flinched away at the contact, pushing himself back against the wall. He remained silent, eyes downcast as his hands twisted nervously in the bedsheets.

Sherlock stared at John until the army doctor finally looked up. When John spoke, his voice was raspy. “Paul is dead.”

“Yes.” Sherlock shifted, moving closer to the bed. “He was killed upon impact.”

Sherlock watched as John’s eyes closed, face betraying nothing but blank indifference. Lowering his voice, Sherlock continued, trying his best to be delicate despite how difficult it was for him to control his anger at Paul. “There was nothing you could have done, John.”

“Even if there was, I wouldn’t have done.” John’s face was a stone mask, but his voice was harsh and shaking. “I would have let him die.”

“Nobody would have blamed you.” Sherlock reached out. “John, I want to do something for you. May I take your hand in mine?”

John frowned, snorting. “I don’t need you to baby me, Sherlock, I’m not five.”

“I don’t believe you are. I ask permission because it is your choice to allow me to do things that involve you, and I want to be sure you understand that.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet but strong. “You hold power here. Your body is your dominion, John, and I am indescribably angry that Paul did not respect that.” He kept his voice as level as possible, even with the rage boiling beneath the surface of his gentle words.

John’s mouth hung open slightly. He cleared his throat and spoke, stumbling over his words. “Y-yeah. ‘Course, yeah.” He reached out and grasped Sherlock’s hand, rough callouses meeting smooth ivory. Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, steadying the doctor’s shaking.

“John, I…” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I love you.”

John snorted, looking away and pulling his hand out from between Sherlock’s. “Pull the other one, Sherlock.”

“I do.” Sherlock kept his voice gentle. “John, I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. You are the only one I have ever been interested in. When I said that, over the phone; I meant it. You are my world.”

John raised his head, surprise written on his face. “Over the phone?” His eyes widened. “That was real?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course it was real. Why wouldn’t it be?”

John didn’t respond. His eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but he was smiling more and more broadly with each passing second. “It was real. You…you were, you really-you really meant it?”

Sherlock nodded, suddenly feeling shy. “Every word. I love you, John Watson.”

John closed his eyes, a smile gracing his bruised features for the first times in month. It slowly fell back to a grim line as he spoke again. “No, that can’t be right. I dreamed that phone call. Paul woke me up after it and he…he was really angry…”

Sherlock frowned, concerned. “John-”

A sudden knock on the door interrupted Sherlock, and a tall, balding doctor entered, wearing a grim expression and carrying a clipboard.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” he said in a voice that was far too loud and intrusive. “My name is Garrett Kalen. I’m in charge of your healthcare while you’re here.”

John had unconsciously curled inward and pressed himself back against the wall, swallowing hard. His voice shook slightly when he responded. “Right, yeah. Dr. Kalen.”

Dr. Kalen turned to Sherlock, frowning. “Are you supposed to be here?”

Sherlock looked at John questioningly, at a loss for words. “Ah…I’m his, well…”

“If you could step out for a moment so I could talk to John privately, that would be helpful.” Dr. Kalen smiled coldly. John shrunk even smaller, and he could not mask the fear in his eyes.

“John is family. He lives with me.” Sherlock’s voice was defensive, one hand gripping the arm of his chair and the other resting gently on the bed, open for John to take.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but-”

“He stays.”

Both men looked in surprise at John, who was sitting up straight, taking deep breaths and staring straight at Dr. Kalen. He spoke again, voice stronger this time. “Sherlock stays. It’s very important to me that he is here.”

“If it’s necessary, I can allow it.” Dr. Kalen stiffened his shoulders and looked down at his clipboard, flipping over the front page. He stepped forward while reading the second page, unaware of the waves of nervousness rolling off John’s now-hunched figure. “Now, we’re not looking at a long stay, which is good. You’ll need to have a chat with one of our psychologists, and you’re going to be on an admittedly brutal course of antibiotics for the infections and previous injuries you’ve got, but you should be out in a few weeks. A month or two, max.”

Sherlock frowned. “He was in a car accident. There was no internal damage from that?”

Dr. Kalen flipped another page. “Hmm…none listed here. John, you’re a doctor; is there anything that doesn’t feel quite right? Have you had any blood come up?”

John mumbled something indistinct as he burrowed into the pillows behind him.

Dr. Kalen sighed harshly. “Speak up. If there’s a problem, I need to get you booked in for whatever it is you need right away.”

John shrank back even more and spoke in a near-whisper. “I vomited when I woke up, but no blood. Everything feels fine.”

“Good.” Dr. Kalen peered over the rims of his silver glasses at John’s medical chart. “You’ve had quite a run-in with bad luck these last few months, haven’t you? We’ve got you down for lacerations to the chest, back, and buttocks, burns to the chest and hands, healed rectal trau-wait, rectal trauma?”

“That’s enough.” Sherlock spoke harshly, eyes trained on John’s shaking shoulders.

Dr. Kalen paled. “I’m very sorry, I had no idea-”

“Dr. Kalen. Outside, now.” Sherlock stood, pushing the man out the door and closing it behind him. He pulled the doctor a few feet from the door and gave him a look of deep loathing.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re dealing with here.” Sherlock took a deep breath, trying not to spit his words into the man’s confused face. “John was trapped in an abusive relationship for several months with what I would diagnose as Stockholm syndrome, raped repeatedly, and watched his abuser die in a horrific car accident,” Sherlock hissed, glaring at the man. “I find myself in the unusual position of reprimanding someone else for their lack of tact. Leave us immediately and get a different doctor assigned to John’s case. Now.”

Dr. Kalen nodded, cheeks reddening, and hurried down the hallway, having the good sense not to respond.

When Sherlock entered the room again, John was curled up underneath the thin sheet, shaking violently, silent sobs wracking his frame. Sherlock gently laid the blanket he had given him earlier over his figure and took the blanket from the chair next to him, adding it to the pile.

“John,” he whispered quietly. “John, John, John, you are safe, I promise you.” Hesitantly, he laid a soft, still hand on John’s covered shoulder, stroking it in small, barely-there touches. “I will never let anything happen to you, not ever. I love you so much, John. You are so loved; you are so, so loved, John.”

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours, but Sherlock did not cease his comfort. He stroked John as gently as he could, whispering sweet nothings into his ear and placing the softest kisses in his sandy blond hair. At some point, John crossed the border between consciousness and sleep, body stilling and shoulders relaxing from the tension that had been held there.

Sherlock watched long into the night as John’s chest rose and fell. He stirred several times, crying out from nightmares and arching his back as his imagination led him to dark places. However, he remained in an uneasy sleep, not fully waking. Sherlock ran careful fingers through his hair, across his shoulders, hesitant to touch more firmly for fear of disturbing his love. He stayed there until the pinks and yellows of the morning light streamed through the window, turning John’s hair to straw and his skin to gold.

Sherlock would never let him be hurt again. He was far too precious.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg wasn’t sure what time it was. Seconds, minutes, hours; nothing mattered. The memories wouldn’t stop coming. It was as though the floodgates had been opened, and Greg was powerless to stop it.

Well, not quite powerless.

The razor blade slipped from between his fingers and fell to the floor where he lay with a muffled clatter. The yellowed tile of his tiny bathroom was splattered with droplets of scarlet blood from the row of ten cuts that ran one by one up his right arm.

“It’s different,” Greg had promised himself in a shaky voice as he gripped the razor blade with trembling fingertips, “I’m in control this time. I just need the memories to stop.”

He knew that ten was too many and too deep, but the repeated scream of _bloodsexpainroughhurtstop_ became louder with each passing second, until there was nothing he could do but cut a few more times than was strictly necessary.

He heard the loud buzz of his phone against tile and reached his non-bloodied hand over, picking it up from where it had been scattered across the floor after he had slid down the wall and nearly passed out. On the screen was a message from Mycroft

**Mickey**

9:42pm

I think we should talk. I love you, and you are the most important thing in my life. I do not want to lose you, and I need to apologise for what I said.

Greg smiled hollowly and texted back, hands shaking.

**Greg**

9:48pm

I don’t know. I wouldn’t think you’d want to be in a relationship with a man as weak as me.

**Mickey**

9:50pm

You are not a weak man, Gregory. I promise you that. I had no idea that you had been raped.

Greg laughed derisively. Mycroft was trying, but there were no words that would erase what had been done.

**Greg**

9:56pm

You think men who let rape affect them are weak, though. That’s what you said.

**Mickey**

9:59pm

That is why I would like to speak with you. It was a badly worded remark, and I have reasons for why I said it. I would like to explain them to you. Will you meet me for dinner tomorrow night?

Greg could barely see the phone, the text on the screen swimming before his eyes. He knew that he would be passing out soon.

**Greg**

10:04pm

asgldkj

The phone hit the floor with a dull thud as Greg slumped, eyes closing as he slipped into unconsciousness. Blood dribbled slowly down his arm from the cuts, pooling beneath him as his phone continued to buzz harshly against the tile.

**Mickey**

10:05pm

Gregory?

**Mickey**

10:35pm

Are you well?

**Mickey**

10:54pm

Please text me back at your earliest convenience. I did not wish to cause you distress.

**Mickey**

11:48pm

Darling, please. I’m worried about you.

**Mickey**

1:35am

Gregory?

……..

**One Month Later**

“Ah…it’s so good to be home.”

John leaned back in his chair, staring happily at the walls of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock stood to the side, a broad smile on his face.

“It’s good to have you back, John.”

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, smile dropping off of his face and mouth setting into a grim line. The last month had been extremely difficult for both men. After his first night in the hospital, John had put on a mask and not removed it since. Day after day, he pretended to be fine around Sherlock. However, Sherlock had friends among the hospital staff. He knew many things that he was sure John would dislike him knowing.

They had not discussed the status of their relationship, either. Sherlock hadn’t expected that they would rush into a relationship; in fact, he would have been even more concerned if John was keen to do so. The detective had hoped that they might discuss their feelings for each other, but so far, it hadn’t happened. He could only hope that moving back into Baker Street would help them work out some of their problems.

He looked back at the living room. John shifted in his chair, sifting through the newspaper for the sports section to read about the last football game he had missed during a therapy appointment. The army doctor was an outpatient now, but he would still meet with his new therapist once a week. John insisted that the weekly appointments weren’t necessary, but Sherlock knew better.

He took a deep breath and set down the bag of groceries they had picked up before returning to Baker Street before stepping back into the living room. “John? Can we talk for a moment?”

“Course, yeah.” John set down the paper, smiling.

Sherlock sat in his own chair across from John’s, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “That first night…I told you I loved you.”

John’s smiled dropped from his face. “And now you’ve changed your mind.”

“No!” Sherlock leaned forward, shocked. “Absolutely not. I’m even more in love with you now, if that’s possible. It’s just…” he trailed off, unsure how to proceed without giving John the wrong idea.

“I think I know what’s going on here,” John said, voice light.

Sherlock frowned. “No, I don’t think-”

“You want us to be together.” John smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made Sherlock’s heart dance in his chest. “You’re confused as to why we haven’t discussed the nature of our relationship.”

“Yes, exactly!” Sherlock sat up, shocked but glad that John seemed to understand how he was feeling. “John, as ever, you are a shining beacon of light.”

“And you want sex, because, honestly, who doesn’t?” John continued to smile, but with each word, it became more brittle. “Which is totally fine. I can give that to you, no problem.”

Sherlock frowned. “John, I hardly think-”

“It might be a little difficult, at first, but I’m confident I can handle it.” John’s smile was a mockery of the one that had previously graced his face, attempting to project confidence but rank with fear and falseness.

“No.”

John frowned, staring at Sherlock’s stark white face. “What?”

“No. John, I don’t-” Sherlock stopped, considering his words carefully. “You aren’t ready. I know you might think you are, but you aren’t. You haven’t talked to me about what he did, and I highly doubt you spoke with your therapist about it, either. As a matter of fact, it’s clear from your shirt cuffs that you don’t talk to her about much at all.”

John’s face darkened with anger. “Don’t you dare try to deduce me. I’m not one of your damn cases, Sherlock.”

“During therapy, she asks you questions about what Paul did to you, physically and emotionally. Instead of answering, you deflect the question, but John, I know you better than anyone, you’ve always had trouble lying, even indirectly.” Sherlock stared at John, face indifferent but heart full of sorrow for the pain he had to cause John in order to get him to talk to him.

“Stop.” John’s voice was shaking.

Sherlock continued, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “Each time you give a roundabout answer to one of her questions, you play with the buttons on your shirt cuffs. The buttonholes are starting to show wear, and the stitching has come undone on the right one.”

“I said, stop!” John shouted and stood abruptly, fist clenching and unclenching. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, tears pricking at the corner of his vision.

Sherlock looked up at John, deep sympathy in his eyes. After a few moments, he spoke softly. “John, nothing you say to me will change my opinion of you. You have suffered more than anyone should, but no matter what you tell me, you will always be the best, the bravest, the kindest, and the most handsome man I have ever known.”

John felt tears spill unbidden down his cheeks. He choked back a sob. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock stood and carefully pulled John into a hug, wrapping his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders. “You are my partner, my best friend, and the man I love. Nothing could ever change that.”

John pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck, hoarse sobs wrenching their way out of his throat. Sherlock stroked gentle fingers through his hair, pressing soft lips against his forehead and scalp. He held John close to him, doing his best to create an aura of protection against any and all of John’s fears.

“I d-don’t deserve you.” John mumbled, hands fisted in Sherlock’s button-up as he sniffled.

“You deserve the world. You deserve anything you want to have.” Sherlock kissed his forehead, cheeks, and nose as gently as possibly, hands staying deliberately on his shoulders and neck.

“I want you.” John swallowed against Sherlock’s chest and traced his hand up to run through the silky black curls on the detective’s head. “More than anything, I want to be with you, but…God, I don’t know if I can, Sherlock. I…everything inside my mind is in disarray, and I want to fix it, but I don’t…I don’t know how.”

Sherlock kissed his head gently. “Everything is fine, John. I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. If you’re not ready, things will stay as they are.”

John remained silent, curled tightly against Sherlock’s chest in his warm embrace. After several moments, he stepped away and looked the taller man straight in the eye. “I want to be your partner. If you’ll have me.” He moved his gaze to the floor, suddenly shy. “I may be a little…wary, at first, but you know better than anyone that I have good reason for that. But…I do want to try, for you. I love you, Sherlock, more than anything.”

Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling and full of happiness, one of his rare ‘just-for-John’ smiles. “I love you very much, John. I can’t promise I’ll be the perfect partner-I am rarely ever just a perfect man-but I can promise that I will never, ever knowingly cause you harm or distress.”

The two stood there, frozen in a moment that never seemed to end, staring at each other and drinking in the bubble of happiness that seemed to surround them. Sunlight streamed in through the windows of 221B Baker Street as the two men who were always meant to be together, finally were.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft walked solemnly down the halls of Scotland Yard towards the office of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, black shoes tapping loudly against the tiles. He wore his very best mask, letting no emotion escape from his icy heart or show on his ironclad face.

One month.

One month with no contact from the man who had claimed to love him. He had texted Gregory countless times for the first week, worried out of his mind that something had happened to his lover. He had eventually been forced to break his vow to Gregory to respect his privacy and had checked the CCTV camera outside of his tiny flat.

Gregory was alive and well, leaving his flat for work each morning and coming home at night. He gave no indication that he was being held hostage or any other equally ridiculous scenario, so Mycroft was forced to come to the conclusion that he either required space or was entirely done with the government man’s love.

Mycroft had given him a month in which to let both of them calm down and think about what they wanted, but now he was getting impatient. Mycroft was not a man for waiting; it bogged down his mind with worry, and he could not afford to be worrying about this when he had so many other things to accomplish in his busy life. So here he was, walking the empty halls of Scotland Yard late on a Friday night, having checked the CCTV to ensure that Gregory was in his office and had not gone to his flat yet.

He paused a few feet from the door, listening for any sounds suggesting that he should not disturb the man who had once been his lover. Hearing none, he knocked firmly three times and lowered his hands to the handle of his umbrella, breathing deeply and reminding himself to keep his emotions in check.

A rough voice called out. “C’mon in, s’unlocked.”

Mycroft frowned at the rather unwelcoming tone, but turned the handle, entering the dimly lit room.

Greg was sitting at his desk, pouring over mountains of paperwork with a glass of scotch to his right and an ashtray full of cigarette butts to his left. He looked up, deep bags under his eyes and a pair of rarely-used reading glasses perched on his nose. “’Lo, Mycroft. What can I do for you?”

“I…” Mycroft, so sure of himself before, now found himself at a loss for words. He approached the desk hesitantly, seating himself in the soft armchair in front of it. He took a deep breath. “I believe we should speak about…us.”

Greg said nothing, but visibly paused in his scanning of the papers in front of him. He abruptly pushed his rolling chair away from the desk and turned his back to Mycroft, opening the cabinet behind him. “Scotch?”

“Please.” Mycroft settled himself back in the chair, drinking in the changes in Greg’s appearance from the last month that he had not been able to observe over the grainy spyglass that was CCTV.

On closer examination, Greg did not look well at all. His hair seemed grayer than before, bags under his eyes more prominent, as though he wasn’t sleeping nearly enough for a man of his busy lifestyle. He was definitely thinner; not yet unhealthily so, but possibly approaching that point. There were a few splotches of blood on the cuff of his left shirtsleeve that peeked out of the unbuttoned suit jacket he was wearing, but for an officer of Scotland Yard that wasn’t unusual.

Mycroft couldn’t help but think that he was missing something important. He didn’t like the feeling.

Greg turned back around, setting the glass of scotch in front of Mycroft. His hands, normally so steady, were shaking ever so minutely. The inspector sat back down, returning to his paperwork.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Gregory, I…I am not entirely sure what happened, but there are some things that I need you to be aware of.”

“Fire away.” Greg shuffled through a stack of official-looking documents, lighting yet another cigarette and blowing smoke out of the corner of his chapped lips.

“Firstly…it was never my intention to hurt you.” Mycroft kept his voice quiet, not wanting to antagonize his former lover. “I care deeply about you, and when I said what I said…well, let’s just say I was not thinking properly.”

Greg leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall and puffing on his cigarette. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with smoke and had a defeated quality, as if he had already given up on this conversation and on Mycroft. “My mum used to say that true opinions are revealed during times of stress. What you say when you’re under a lot of pressure, that’s what you really think, isn’t it? Because during those times, you’ve got no filter.”

“And I strongly believe the exact opposite.” Mycroft said firmly, leaning forward and taking a long sip of his scotch in between sentences. “I was extremely concerned about Sherlock that day, and I…while I have no excuse for the horrific nature of what I said, I can assure you that is not my opinion of you, or anyone suffering from incidents such as these, in the slightest.”

“And yet you said it.” Greg took a long drag, staring oddly at his right forearm as he held his cigarette aloft.

“Gregory…there is something you should know.” Mycroft swallowed. “It…it is not something that anyone knows about me, but if we are going to repair our relationship I feel that complete honesty is absolutely crucial.”

Greg said nothing, staring hard at the opposite wall.

Mycroft sucked in a breath, feeling uncharacteristically nervous and staring down at his feet. “When I was a child, I was…sexually assaulted, by my uncle.”

Greg’s head turned abruptly, horror on his face as he looked straight at Mycroft for the first time since he had arrived. “Mickey…Christ.”

“He was discovered and incarcerated, and the incident was well hidden from everyone, including Sherlock.” Mycroft said smoothly. He shivered slightly, but maintained his composure. “I spent a very long portion of my adolescence believing that the assault was inherently my fault, and I worked very hard to fix that error in judgment. What I said was worded quite poorly, and was painfully out of context.” Mycroft swallowed, looking at the floor. “What I meant to convey was that John should recover more easily than I because, unlike me, he is not one to blame himself for events that are out of his control.”

Greg was staring sadly at Mycroft. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I never meant to hurt you, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet and shaking with a nearly undetectable tremor. “Unbelievable as it may seem, I do make mistakes, and when I do, they are generally of this magnitude. Can you possibly forgive me for this one?”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand from where it lay on the desk, a warm smile lighting up his wan face. “Of course, my love. I could never stay away from you for long.”

They stayed like that for a few moments, staring into each other’s eyes with looks that said all that words could not cover. Mycroft finally spoke, voice soft.

“Come home with me, darling. I miss you in my bed.”

Greg closed his eyes, happiness coursing through him. “Yes, of course, I-”

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, he remembered. Greg looked down, the smile slipping off of his face. Mycroft could not know about the cutting. He would most definitely leave him, and Greg didn’t think he could bear that again. He bit his lip, trying to decide what to do.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s eyes were warm and full of a deep love that most thought the man wasn’t capable of. It was something Greg never wanted to lose again. He took a deep breath and smiled.

“Sounds perfect. I’ll need to stop off at my flat, get a few things.”

Mycroft relaxed his shoulders, smiling. He was the most intelligent man Greg knew, but for someone who knew him more intimately than anyone else on the planet, he was easy for Greg to fool. “Of course.”

Both men stood and exited the room together. Greg knew that this happiness couldn’t last; but he would do his best to keep it as long as he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke to the sound of screaming.

He scrambled out of bed, throwing his dressing gown over his naked body, and yanked open the door, taking the stairs to John’s room two at a time. When he burst through the door, he saw John, bare chest arched toward the ceiling and covered in sweat, screaming in terror and pain.

“John!” he shouted, approaching the bed carefully. John had warned him before to be wary when waking him from nightmares, as he had a tendency to lash out. The doctor fell back onto the bed, panting and whimpering, head whipping back and forth against the pillow.

“N-n-no, p-please…h-hurts too much…I c-can’t do it…” John choked the words out past a constricted throat, tears squeezing out from tightly closed eyes.

“John, my love…” Sherlock kept his voice soothing, seating himself on the edge of the bed with care. “It’s okay, you are safe here. You’re safe.”

“C-can’t…c-can’t take both of y-you…h-hurts-” John’s words were cut off with another violent scream, and Sherlock felt his stomach turn as he realized exactly what torture John’s mind was putting him through. Wary of any flying fists or kicking feet, Sherlock reached forward and placed his hand in John’s hair, stroking as gently as he could.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, the name feeling oddly right rolling off of his tongue, “it’s okay. I love you. Darling, I love you so much.”

John whimpered, body stilling slightly. “H-hurts…”

“It’s not real.” Sherlock whispered softly, caressing John’s hair with a gossamer touch and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “John, you are safe here. Nobody will ever harm you again. You are safe. You are loved.”

John’s body relaxed in his sleep, whimpers eventually fading away as he fell into a deeper, dreamless sleep. Sherlock smiled sadly as the wrinkles in his doctor’s forehead smoothed away and stood, stepping soundlessly over to John’s desk and seating himself in the chair there, staring out the window at the starry night sky.

He would be there when John woke. He always would.

……..

It was nearly one in the morning, but they were almost home. Greg was dozing on Mycroft’s shoulder in the back of one of his many sleek black cars. Mycroft pressed a kiss to the top of his head as they pulled into the driveway of his house, close to London but just far enough out for a heightened level of privacy that homes in the city didn’t often provide.

Greg awoke with a start, sucking in a breath and coughing hoarsely. “Home?”

“Yes.” Mycroft exited the car, helping the exhausted inspector climb out of the vehicle after him.

Once inside, Mycroft turned to him, smiling softly and gesturing at the dining room table, upon which sat several takeout boxes. “I took the liberty of calling ahead for Anthea to deliver some of the disgusting Chinese takeout that you favor.” He peered at him with a stern glare, though it was loving at the same time. “Not the most healthy meal for a man who’s been starving himself, but I do believe it will satisfy you.”

“God, I love you,” Greg said happily as he dropped into a chair at the dining room table and picked up a pair of chopsticks, digging into a box of noodles with gusto.

Mycroft seated himself gingerly across from him, idly unwrapping a fortune cookie and biting into the Styrofoam-like biscuit with distaste. He stared at the fortune without really reading it and said quietly, “I don’t suppose you would like to tell me why you’ve lost so much weight.”

Greg paused for a moment, eyes wide, then looked down and continued shoving noodles into his mouth with abandon. “It happens, when I…well, anyways. When I’m feeling down, I…forget, that I need food to function. Nothing tastes good when you’re sad.”

“I’m going to buy you food every day for the rest of your life, Gregory.” Mycroft said seriously, a crooked smile lighting his face.

Greg snorted, starting in on a box of sesame chicken with peppers. “S’a lot of food, sweetheart.”

“Nothing is too good for my love.” Mycroft said quietly, smiling fondly.

Later, once food had been finished, containers thrown in the trashbin, and kisses stolen over the kitchen counter, Greg let out a long yawn and Mycroft was reminded that it was almost two am.

“Bedtime, I think,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. Greg nodded and stood from the chair he had been leaning back in, stretching, his untucked shirt coming up to reveal a strip of finely toned, tan abdomen. Mycroft felt a spike of lust throw his brain off balance momentarily, but firmly reminded himself that Greg needed sleep, not sex; and it wouldn’t hurt him to get some rest, either.

The two men adjourned to the bedroom but, to Mycroft’s confusion, Greg pulled his pyjamas out of his overnight bag and headed towards the bathroom.

“Do not feel the need for modesty on my account, dearest. I have in fact seen it all before, you know.” Mycroft said dryly, a smirk gracing his sharp features.

“Think I fancy a shower, actually,” Greg smiled back, but sheepish concern suddenly marred his face. “If that’s alright, I mean. I know this is your home, I don’t want to intrude-”

“You’ve all but lived here for the past year, Gregory,” Mycroft smiled softly, his heart swelling at the thought. “You are most certainly entitled to as many showers as you’d like.”

Greg’s face lit up and he grinned. “Thanks, love.” He closed the bathroom door behind him, and Mycroft tried to shut down the concern that he felt when he heard the lock click, a rarity in their relationship. However, he pushed the worry out of his mind, chalking it up to the unfortunate break the two men had been forced to endure.

Mycroft undressed quickly and efficiently, hanging his suit in the ornate wardrobe across from the bed. Wearing only his silk boxers and a white undershirt, he opened Greg’s overnight bag, hoping to find one of the man’s oversized rugby t-shirts to wear for sleeping. He loved to wear Greg’s shirts; they smelled like him, like aftershave and scotch and the delicious smell of his unique musk. As he pulled out an orange shirt with the name of a team he didn’t recognize on it, a small Ziploc bag fell to the floor. Mycroft stared down at the bag and the contents within, feeling his blood freeze within his veins. He knelt slowly and picked it up, heart pounding as he realized what exactly was inside.

Inside the bathroom, Greg stripped out of his work clothes, tossing them carelessly on the floor. He winced as the sleeve of his shirt caught on the cuts lining his arm. There were dozens of them, some long, some short, some shallow, and some far too deep from the nights when his life had seemed the most hopeless. They lined both arms and, more recently, the tops of both thighs. Old whitened scars were covered over by fresh red hues.

Greg stared at himself in the mirror, disappointment once again filling him. He had promised himself that he would never let it get out of control again; but here he was.

A knock at the door startled him. Mycroft’s velvety baritone met Greg’s ears, but his lover sounded…shaken. He had never heard Mycroft sound like this before.

“Darling, could you open the door, please?”

Greg frowned. “Gimme a minute, I need to throw on my pyjamas.”

He pulled a pair of frayed plaid pyjama bottoms up his legs and over the new scars on his thighs, hipbones jutting out from a month of scarce eating. He tugged a long-sleeved shirt over his head quickly and opened the door, his smile turning to a frown when he saw how pale Mycroft’s face was. “Love? What’s wrong?”

Mycroft held out the Ziploc bag that Greg had unconsciously thrown into his overnight bag. The bag contained several razor blades, thankfully clean of any blood, as well as bandages and first aid cream. The weight of his seemingly inconsequential actions hit the inspector like a ton of bricks.

“Gregory, could you explain this?”

Greg raised his eyebrow, smiling as casually as he could, his heart beating a mile a minute. “Blades for my razor? I don’t like to throw them in with my wash-up kit-might cut myself on accident if I went to grab something. And carrying bandages is something I like to do, as a police officer who hangs around with people like your brother far too much.”

Mycroft studied his face for a minute, then relaxed, smiling sadly. “I apologize for doubting you. I…I have struggled, in the past, and I have no wish for you to go through anything near what I have suffered.”

“Course not, love.” Greg smiled and walked him to the bed, shower forgotten. “It’s completely understandable. We’re both tired, but good news is, I’m off shift tomorrow! We could spend the whole day in bed.”

Mycroft smiled softly as he slid under the soft sheets. “I love you.”

Greg crawled into bed after him, smile only dropping when Mycroft closed his eyes. “I love you too.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, this fic is going to be a bit longer than the last, at around twenty chapters. I do unfortunately have real-life work that has to get done often, so I'll update this as often as I can after the short break I'm currently on is over. If you have ideas for things you'd like to see in this fic, or prompts for other fics, please don't hesitate to comment or message me here or on Tumblr! I'm a h/c fic junkie, so help me drug myself. Thanks, friends, and much love.

“John?”

John stared at himself in the mirror, letting Sherlock’s inquiry go unanswered. Even after a month of recovery, he still didn’t look like the man he once was. He was putting on weight, and he felt disgusting. His body was covered in scars, welts and burns and marks that would constantly remind him of Paul’s poisonous touch. Thankfully, his tests had come back clean of any STIs, a result of Paul’s possessive nature which made him refuse to let anyone use John without a condom. John supposed it was twisted to be thankful that Paul had been that considerate, but he would take what he could get.

Sherlock’s voice came again from outside the bathroom. “I’m going to bed, love. If you need to talk…” he cut off, hesitant, and after a few moments John heard his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway as he went to his bedroom.

It had been a week since John had come home to Baker Street and he had yet to tell Sherlock much of what Paul had done to him. He knew that Sherlock had a vague sense of what he had gone through, as the detective had been honest and told him he’d read his journal. However, he had never written in detail in his journal, too afraid that Paul would find it and punish him.

John took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror, leaning against the counter. He had not come in here simply to stare at the disappointment that was his body, but to push himself a little further into recovery. He slid a hand down to his groin, palming himself and trying desperately to get hard while keeping Paul out of his mind.

It was a nearly impossible task. Each time John got anywhere close to even half of an erection, Paul’s lessons in humiliation or Paul’s sexual tortures came to the forefront of his mind, images of the man’s leering face scattered across his closed eyelids.

John shook his head, clearing out the thoughts of Paul, and focused instead on Sherlock, lying in bed at that very moment. Sherlock, all long naked limbs and pale, pale skin against the navy blue silk of his sheets. Sherlock, spread out and waiting for John to touch him, taste him, worship his gorgeous, lithe body. Sherlock’s cock, hard and leaking precome over those glorious jutting hipbones, one of his long-fingered hands wrapped around it and the other teasing his dusky pink nipples.

John came hard, spurting onto the floor with a loud moan followed by a gasp as he realized what had happened. He stood in shock for a few moments, unable to believe what had just occurred.

“John! John, are you alright?” Sherlock hammered on the door moments later, sounding alarmed.

“Y-yeah, sorry.” John could feel himself shaking. His knees gave way and he slid from the wall to the floor, hand pressed over his mouth as a sob threatened to come forth.

“John, open the door now, or I will break it down, so help me!” Sherlock continued to bang on the door, voice rife with alarm. John made no move to open it, shaking with what he knew was the beginnings of a panic attack. He heard Sherlock’s lock pick working frantically, and moments later the door swung open, revealing a very worried detective.

“John, are you-oh.” Sherlock saw the splatters of come on the tile floor and flushed a very impressive beet red. “Oh, John, I am so-I am so sorry, I did not mean to intrude-”

John made a whimpering sound, eyes shut tightly as he shook.

“John?” Sherlock said uncertainly. He knelt next to the doctor, avoiding the rapidly drying puddle of come. “John, what’s wrong? Did…did that hurt you?”

John shook his head, hands coming up to cover his face. He mumbled something indistinct, breathing far too quickly. Sherlock leaned forward, putting his hands gently on each of John’s shoulders and rubbing them softly, grounding him in the present.

“John, I need you to breathe, okay?” Sherlock kept his voice calm and masked his worry and fear as best he could. “Breathe with me now.”

John took several deep breaths as his heart rate slowly returned to a normal pace, hands gradually leaving his face. He still did not open his eyes.

“Sweetheart, open your eyes for me, okay?” Sherlock leaned forward, speaking softly. “It’s me. It’s Sherlock. I’m here, and you are safe with me.”

“M’afraid,” John whispered, like a child. “Wh-what if..s’not you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am so, so in love with an amazing, wonderful man named John Watson,” Sherlock whispered, letting his normally guarded emotional mask drop as his rich voice filled with every emotion he worked so hard to suppress. “He is a strong and brave man, and I am so honored to have his love and to be his partner. I love him. John, dearest, I love you.”

John’s eyes slowly opened, unsure pupils peering out from beneath shadowed lids. He saw Sherlock there, watching him with concern and love, and abruptly leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the detective. Shocked, Sherlock paused for a moment before laying his own arms in a careful circle around John’s shoulders, holding him close to his chest but far enough that John could escape, should he need to.

Sherlock pressed his lips to the top of John’s head, cheek brushing his sandy blond hair. “I’ll never let you go again, love.”

John sniffled and pulled back, wiping the back of his hand over his reddened eyes. “M’sorry. I fall apart on y-you far too often.”

“I am here for the sole purpose of you falling apart on me,” Sherlock said in a serious voice. John giggled, that high-pitched laugh that Sherlock had fallen in love with during their very first night together, after dinner at Angelo’s and the adrenaline high from the cab chase through London.

“I do have one request, though, John.”

John looked up, all humor gone from his face and suddenly replaced with worry. Sherlock smiled fondly, cupping his face with a graceful, long-fingered hand.

“It’s nothing big, I promise,” Sherlock said quietly, “but for once in my life, I find myself feeling…insufficiently knowledgeable about something. I cannot help you if I don’t know what’s going on inside your head, and out of respect for your privacy, I don’t wish to deduce you. I will understand if you don’t feel comfortable confiding in anyone yet, but you should know…I am always here, John, and nothing will make me judge you or think differently of you.”

“I know.” John whispered, a faint smile gracing his features. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Sherlock said, smiling and pressing his forehead to John’s. He kissed his cheek ever so gently and pulled back. “So, what was this all about?”

John looked down at the mess he had made on the tile floor, cheeks flushing red with shame. “When I was with Paul…he, er, well, he didn’t like me to…finish, very often.”

Sherlock looked at the puddle with sadness in his eyes and anger in his heart. “How long has it been since you last ejaculated?”

“Four months.” John whispered, staring at the floor with mortification. Silence fell over the room for a few moments. When Sherlock spoke, it was with a carefully even tone.

“John, you are your own person. I do believe I have told you this before, and I will continue to tell you until you accept it as fact, but your body is your dominion. It is not wrong for you to want to orgasm, or to do whatever else you want to do with your body or your penis, for that matter.” Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. “At some point, I would greatly enjoy being involved in some of the lovely things I’m sure you do with your penis. However, the fact remains that you are free to do as you wish. If what you wish is to masturbate in the bathroom and spill all over the tile, I promise you that I will never withhold that pleasure from you.”

John laughed, a real, honest laugh that Sherlock had not heard in some time. “I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned in, touching his forehead to John’s and closing his eyes, happiness radiating through every fibre of his being. “And I you, John Watson.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, college is terrible and I want to die lolololol but anyways...new chapter! Again, if you have anything you'd like to see in this story, hmu. There's no plot at this point, just gnarly hurt/comfort, so I'm always looking for ideas.   
> (pssst at some point there will be a pretty impressive plot kthanksbye)

Greg woke gradually, pleasantly warm and enjoying the feeling of soft sheets caressing his skin. He snuggled against Mycroft’s back, listening to the other man’s quiet snoring and feeling as though his heart would burst from happiness.

Of course, there was a slight problem in his pants, one that would regrettably have to be seen to somewhere other than the toasty mass of blankets, sheet, and cuddly man that he was currently enveloped in.

Greg stood, stretching, pyjama shirt riding up to reveal his toned stomach. He scratched at his arm, frowning at the unusual amount of itchiness and heat he felt there. Leaving Mycroft still snoozing in the large, luxurious bed, he padded into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Greg pressed a hand to the front of his pyjama trousers, hardness aching to be touched. He slid his trousers down past his arse and rubbed himself, staring with disgust at the scars on his thighs. Thankfully, there were not many; he had only just begun cutting himself there, and the scarring that was there could easily be played off as an accident that had occurred on the edge of a desk, or while chasing a mugger in some unnamed back alley. He had no excuse for the ones on his arms, however; they were older, there were many more of them, and they were not nearly as well taken care of.

Turning to face away from the mirror, Greg stroked his cock, but found to his frustration that he still craved more. After a month of only his hand and an occasional finger or two in an excellent place, he desperately wanted the body of the man lying only a room away.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Greg froze, cursing his forgetful mind for not locking it. Mycroft stumbled in, yawning, but froze with eyes wide open when he saw Greg there, cock in hand and a guilty look upon his face.

“Lo, Mickey,” he mumbled, covering himself with his hand and trying to pretend that the man hadn’t just walked in on him hiding his wanking from his partner. “Sleep well?”

Mycroft gave him a devilish smirk and fell to his knees in front of Greg, hands sliding up the back of the inspector’s calves. “Grandly, thank you.”

Greg hesitated, unsure if he could pass himself off as okay. “Mycroft-”

“I am aware you may be feeling shy after the last month or so, but rest assured that I-” Mycroft stopped, seductive look falling away from his face as he took in the series of cuts on Greg’s upper thighs. “Gregory, where did these come from?”

“Policework. You know how it is.” Greg laughed nonchalantly, feeling his heart break at just how easy it was for him to pass off his inner turmoil as an inconsequential accident. “I was running after this crazy mugger, he broke this storefront window and I tripped and slid right into it.”

Mycroft smiled, though his eyes were slightly confused. He knew that something didn’t quite add up. “My clumsy inspector.” He leaned forward, reverently pressing feather-light kisses to each cut. Greg’s heart clenched in his chest at the amount of love he could feel flowing between them.

The feeling swiftly disappeared when Mycroft leaned forward and swallowed Greg’s achingly hard prick into his mouth.

“Jesus, Mickey!” Greg swore. Mycroft rarely did blowjobs, so this was indeed a very special moment. His mouth was perfect, hot, tight, and wet, and his gag reflex was nearly nonexistent. It felt incredible, and Greg’s legs turned to jelly. Mycroft sucked cock like a professional, which meant that Greg didn’t notice the other man’s hands rising to slide up his still-clothed arms, gripping them tightly.

“Ack!” Greg choked as Mycroft’s grip split several of the most recent cuts open on his tender arms. Mycroft frowned, pulling off and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Dearest? Are you alright?”

Greg stared down at Mycroft’s worried face and schooled his own into a relaxed expression. “Yeah, sorry. Maybe go gentle on the arms, got a couple bruises there. Went too hard at the gym the other day, I suppose.”

Mycroft nodded and leaned forward, hands dropping to the backs of Greg’s well-formed thighs as he nuzzled his face against the inspector’s crotch. “You injure yourself entirely too often, my love. You must be more careful.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, staring soulfully up at Greg as he rested his lips on the very tip of his penis, his next words buzzing against Greg’s slit. “I want to make you come many more times, in many more ways.”

Greg moaned and leaned back, grinning and ignoring the heart-wrenching guilt that filled his hollow chest. “I’m all yours, Mickey.”

……….

John stared emptily at the full plate of bangers and mash in front of him, pushing the food around with a fork. Sherlock sat across from him, staring into a microscope, his own empty plate pushed to the side.

“John. You’ve barely touched your food.” Sherlock pushed his chair back from the microscope, scrutinizing the doctor across from him. “Is something wrong?”

John set his fork down, staring at his lap and mumbling under his breath.

“Come again?”

When John spoke, his voice was low and full of loathing. “I’m fat.”

Silence filled the air for a few seconds before Sherlock regained control over the anger he felt at Paul every time John faced an issue caused by him. “No, you most certainly aren’t. You’ve only just regained enough weight to be healthy for a male of your height and age.”

John stared at the tile beneath his chair, looking absolutely miserable. “It’s too much.”

“John.” Sherlock struggled to keep his voice soft and reassuring as he stood abruptly from the table. “Come with me.”

John followed him out of the kitchen and down the hall into the bathroom. Sherlock didn’t miss the way he sucked in his stomach, wrapping his arms self-consciously around his midsection.

Once in the bathroom, Sherlock hauled the scale out from behind the toilet. John paled and backed out of the room quickly. “No. Sherlock, no, absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said firmly, reaching around and pulling John back in with a lithe arm. “John, it’s very important that you realize something.”

The doctor looked down at the floor, hands shaking ever so slightly. “I can’t do this.”

Sherlock took John’s hands gently in his own and tugged him forward. With each step, he pressed a kiss to John’s forehead. “You, John Hamish Watson, are the strongest man I know. You’ve already far exceeded my expectations for your recovery.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles against John’s cheek, staring intensely into deep blue eyes. “You are incredible, and I love you more than anything else.”

John flushed deeply, a small smile working its’ way onto his face. Slowly, he stepped forward onto the scale, hands shaking only slightly. The two men looked down at the scale, and John closed his eyes in horror.

“John, no, look at me!” Sherlock cupped his face between gentle hands, eyes full of worry. “145. My love, if anything, you’re underweight.”

“I have to be under 120…” John mumbled, wrenching his face out of Sherlock’s hands and staring at the floor. He scratched at his wrist, hands shaking more each second.

“John.” Sherlock whispered, hands settling softly on his shoulders. “Anything Paul told you is a lie. 120 pounds is not a healthy weight for an adult male of your stature, especially not if it’s gained by starving yourself.”

“He…” John paused, shaking, then backed up, seating himself on the edge of the toilet. He lowered his head into his hands as Sherlock knelt swiftly in front of him, worried. “He wouldn’t give me food. He said I was too fat, that I needed to look better for him.”

“John, there is no restrictions on your weight.” Sherlock said quietly. “You can eat anything you want, and you can weigh whatever you’d like, provided it’s a healthy weight and above a ridiculous number such as 120.”

“I stole food from the pantry once,” John whispered, lost in remembrances. Sherlock stayed silent, feeling privileged that John was choosing to tell him some of the hell he had experienced. “A sleeve of biscuits, a bit of cheese. I ate it all in five minutes, locked in the linens closet. Paul found me and he…” John broke off, eyes closing. “He made me throw it up.”

Sherlock said nothing, taking his hand and stroking a gentle circular pattern into the palm with soft fingertips.

“I know he wasn’t right, but Sherlock, you have to understand-” John looked up at the detective, voice tight and face raw with emotion. “Paul, he…he was good at taking my weaknesses, my fears, and using them against me.”

Sherlock searched John’s face, then spoke, voice quiet and unusually unsure. “You were bullied as a child for your weight.”

John nodded, saying nothing as he stared determinedly at the floor.

“John, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Sherlock said gently. “We all have weak points that can be used against us. Even me.”

John nodded again, eyes closing.

“Oh, my love.” Sherlock took both of John’s hands in his own, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “It is okay. I promise you, it is all okay, and I will never let you be hurt again.”

John opened his eyes, smiling weakly. “You do like to promise me things.”

“I take them seriously,” Sherlock said sharply, then softened, squeezing John’s hands gently. “John, when I promise that I will never let you be hurt again, I mean it. I will do everything in my power to keep that promise.”

John tilted his head, smiling. “Then I can make you a promise as well, yeah?”

“And what would that be?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes teasingly.

“I promise you…” John took a deep breath, “I promise that I will do my very best to avoid destructive behaviors.”

“Good.” Sherlock said approvingly. “Very good.”

John felt his heart swell at the words. He was home.


End file.
